Alphabet City

I’m still suffering from that small town suburban claustrophobia. I got out years ago and I still can’t shake it off on these streets. It’s a time of cardboard being my new bed without sheets to hid  underneath.  I got a selfishness to heal inside me that won’t sit still.

I don’t trust strangers with homes. They got in them by keeping others out. I could never fall in love with a man that does not know struggle. The dirt being caked on your skin and the odor making people breathe with their mouths. The glares of disgust from strangers walking by and the pitiful glances as they drop a dollar in your cup. A love that knows the sacrifice your stomach makes when passing on your next few meals for the next bag.

I loved him for the holes in his only pair of jeans and how those holes matched the one in my arm the day we met. I loved him for the stories about his cuts and scars. The fact that he named his razor blade, something that I no longer remember.  I loved him for having similar stories as I. Mostly, I loved him because he shared a spot on the sidewalk with me. I did because no one else loved him and I felt bad because no one else loved me.  I loved him because he loved me. He was the closest thing to a loving home I had. Back then, at 19 years old, that was enough for me. Just any one who would love me was better than being alone.

I hated him because he had these beautiful strong arms, in which his veins popped the way I wish mine still did. His white scars overlapped gorgeous blue veins. But, he loved me and because of that his arms didn’t stay beautiful for long.

Before I go on I feel the need to explain, I’m not a unlikable person.  Any one can do any thing to any one. People do things.

I loved to shoot him up, after shooting myself first, because he would tell me stories about his childhood that were way worse than mine. I would celebrate for having less pain than him by shooting up another bag. I would laugh at his pain because his erased mine. We both became wilder, more destructive, and more dependent. Heroin was always the drug of choice, but other became regulars as well. Any thing we could get really. Cocaine, Xanax, crack, molly, x, acid, pot, shrooms, oxy, whip its and cough syrup. Any thing that we could smoke, snort, or IV was going to be done. I even had to take him to the hospital after he shot up rum. I loved how crazy we both were until he burned out.

I loved him no longer after he woke me up in the middle of the night. I woke up with him on top of me and couldn’t get him off. In that moment, I didn’t think about the softness of his lips or the blue of his eyes. All I saw was empty darkness of the night. I was transported into a garage. The cold hard sidewalk turned into that old smelly couch from my least favorite garage I’ve ever seen. I was ten years old again. I was just waiting on my back for it to be all over.

Suddenly, it was.  He was gone.  I never saw him again.

He was later found in a Starbucks bathroom. The story is that he smoked too much crack and his heart stop. But, I don’t really know.  All I know was what he did and what he said.

If I was smart or a dignified person I would have learned my lesson. I have quit drugs, quit bad boys, get a job and maybe even a family. But, I’m not a good person. I probably should and I know I could, but I don’t want to. I need my highs and lows. I could never be empty in the middle.  It   never makes me feel alive, but it’s the only thing that makes me want to.

I don’t love him any more. I don’t think I really ever did. I don’t ever miss him. But, I will never forget the last thing he told me.  He said, ” I find you so beautiful that it hurts to look at you at times.  You never look nice. Beauty isn’t pleasant looking or pleasant to look at. It makes you feel like you are being born and dying at the same time. You are a work of art and I can’t stand to look at you any longer.”

I guess, it’s always the women’s fault for making men feel some thing. It still makes me sad that no one will speak to me like that again.


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